


This Tragic Affair

by Roga



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Space Opera, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-04
Updated: 2011-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Brendon wants is someone to make out with! Unexpected zombies are unexpected. A Space AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Tragic Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [languisity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/languisity/gifts).



> Warning for mild offscreen violence. Written for bandomstuffsit 2010. Thank you to minglingcrab, were_duck and miarr for looking it over <3

Three weeks into the tour, it happens again.

"The thing is," Brendon tells Spencer as they make their way out the back corridors of the venue. "I'm starting to think this is more than just a coincidence."

Spencer slants his eyes at him. "What?"

" _That_." Brendon indicates the venue with a tilt of his head, still walking. "You know. With the girl."

"What happened with the girl?"

" _Nothing_ ," Brendon says. "Which is also what happened with the boy," he counts, "and the boy before that, and the girl _and_ boy before that. It's like, I finally meet some nice people who are actually into me, and the moment things are starting to, you know, go places, the clock strikes twelve and bam, it's back to the mothership."

Spencer lets out a snort, rounding a corner. "Poor little rockstar."

"Spence," Brendon whines. "I haven't even made out with anyone in two months, I swear, the universe has it in for me. This is either karmic payback for some past-life Brendon's evil deeds, or you're just trying to cockblock me." He stops Spencer with a hand on his arm, expression heartfelt. "Are you trying to cockblock me, Spencer?"

Spencer glares at him. "Maybe you should just carry a watch so I don't have to come haul your ass in every time you're late for curfew."

Brendon lets himself throw one last morose glance back at the venue—the girl had been _really_ hot—before the _Disco_ 's ramp unfolds, shedding bright light on the clearing before them, and revealing Ryan's waiting silhouette, arms folded against his chest.

Brendon drags his feet up the ramp, starts feeling the ship's familiar hum through his toes.

"Fun night?" Ryan asks.

"Could have been better," Brendon sighs. Ryan ruffles his hair as he passes by, and Brendon catches him raising an eyebrow at Spencer, who just scowls in return.

*

The thing is, Brendon really _does_ miss kissing. He misses kissing a lot. He misses other stuff too, but kissing, that'd be a good start. And it's not like he makes a pass at every single thing that moves, like—no groupies, no one under twenty, no bandmates, and he really does try hard with the no crew rule, just because it makes things easier in the long run—but it's really starting to get inconvenient when he'll be talking to a guy and sharing musical tastes and someone's shirt will ride up a little and someone's fingers will brush someone's hips and someone will lean closer and tilt their head and suddenly Brendon will feel his body buzz and find himself in the transporter on the _Disco_ , blinking his eyes at Spencer or Ryan or Zack, or whoever else decided to be the sadist-du-jour.

"Late again, hot stuff," Spencer will say with disinterest, completely unsympathetic, and it's like Brendon's the only one who expected touring the galaxy to include, like, actually _touring the galaxy_. The longest they've stayed on a planet so far has been two days. Brendon misses flyparks and shopping malls and unfiltered air, and he misses _people_. People he can also occasionally make out with. People who don't give him death glares when he wanders off after shows, Spencer Smith.

No, Brendon definitely needs to change his M.O.

The next day he discovers that taking off his tracker to avoid premature beaming might have been the wrong course of action, because that's the day My Chemical Romance's new single hits the waves, right before the zombies attack.

*

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—_

The chant runs through his head to the beat of his steps: _fuck fuck fuck, fuck breathe fuck._ His chest feels like its burning and his heart is pounding frantically and thank god Brendon's legs are still carrying him forward, because his brain can't form a single command right now, just regurgitates its unhelpful litany of _fuck_ s. As hard as he tries, he can't seem to gain any kind of distance from them, and they're not—he's never put too much time into thinking about zombies because zombies, what the fuck, but they're not vague or sluggish or confused, they're fucking _fast_ and coordinated and they're at his heels. Brendon has no idea where he's running except _away_ , and he has no plan—there are too many of them, his tracker's somewhere on the bar counter in the club, along with his comm that he didn't get a chance to grab when the girl had—

A wave of nausea hits him and he almost stumbles. Better not think about the girl.

Brendon's running so hard he can't breathe, but another kick of adrenaline hits him when a hand scrabbles at his shirt and almost forms a grip, and he sprints forward, down another corridor of the motherfucking labyrinth that's the underbelly of the arena they played in tonight, and god, his band, he has no idea where they are, he can't—can't think about—except now there are tears in his eyes, great, _just_ what he needs, _fuck fuck fuck—_

"Brendon!"

A hand grabs his arm and for a moment Brendon's heart nearly stops. _This is it_ , he thinks, with utter clarity, and then realizes that it's Spencer and his heart almost stops again. It's kind of disorienting how he simultaneously feels one step closer to surviving and also as if he's lost ten years of his life.

"Come on!" Spencer says, pulling Brendon behind him, his tone so commanding that Brendon doesn't even think to argue. Spencer's shouting something into his comm as he leads them through the complex, jerking Brendon around corners and obstacles and all of a sudden they're outside and _god thank god_ the ship is there and Ryan's there too, pushing Brendon on board into Jon's arms—

—and then marching back outside with what looks like a silver-lined _missile launcher_ in his arms.

Ryan joins Spencer, who's walking backwards onto the ship and shooting thin beams from two guns, quick and precise, disintegrating zombies one by one and keeping them off the _Disco_. Some of them are trying to climb the ship's stabilizers, but Spencer ignores them. Instead, he steps closer to Ryan so that they're shoulder to shoulder, braces a hand against Ryan's back, and then Ryan wordlessly aims at the large horde of zombies bunched around the arena's exit. And shoots. A bright light fills the air along with a deafening noise, and nearly half the zombies crumble to the ground; the rest of them scatter.

Brendon stares.

Spencer and Ryan turn back to the ship, briskly taking the last few steps inside and shutting the airlocks and the ramp behind them. "Move, move, move!" Spencer orders into his comm, and the pilot must have been on stand-by because they're in the air in less than ten seconds.

Brendon's still clinging to Jon. He's safe on the ship and his band is there and there are no zombies anywhere, and he's still having trouble breathing, for more reasons than one. Ryan lowers his weapon, setting it down on the floor gently, looking about as rattled as he gets when he sees a spider, which is to say, not much. Spencer's flushed with exertion and still panting a little, guns gripped tightly in his hands. There's a dark look in his eyes.

Brendon doesn't think he can even speak, but apparently his mouth disagrees because he hears himself saying, "What the _fuck_?"

Jon squeezes his hand and Ryan looks uncomfortable, and Spencer's eyes soften. "Ryan and I are zombie hunters. Pete Wentz recruited us when we were seventeen. I'm sorry we never told you guys; it was safer if you didn’t know." He takes a few hesitant steps towards Brendon, then holsters his guns and envelops both him and Jon in a tight hug. A moment later Ryan joins them. Brendon's still shaking, but he clutches Jon's hand and Spencer's shoulder, focuses on the words Spencer's whispering into his hair, "It's okay, you're okay now, we're safe."

Except that only takes place in Brendon's imaginary universe. It's not actually what happens.

*

"What the _fuck_?" Brendon finds himself saying, and Jon squeezes his hand and Ryan's face looks utterly blank and Spencer's eyes harden and he drops his weapons to the floor with a clang, which can't be safe.

"What the _fuck_ were you doing without your tracker?" Spencer yells. "Jesus fuck, Brendon, what's the matter with you?"

Brendon feels like he's been punched in the gut. "I— _what_?" His heart is pounding again. Spencer looks furious. "I was just—I needed some downtime, I—" Brendon's words die in his throat, too shocked to know what to say.

"You were thinking with your dick," Spencer spits out. "Fuck, I can't even—" His fists clench, and for a moment Brendon thinks he's going to punch a wall, or maybe Brendon. "I've seen you pull off some stupid shit before, Brendon, but this level of irresponsibility—"

"Spencer," Jon interjects, but Spencer ignores him.

"—blows my fucking mind, do you even realize—"

"Spence," Ryan says quietly.

Spencer turns to him and shouts, "He could have _died_ out there!"

"He didn't know."

"Huge fucking comfort, we could work that into his epitaph."

"Spencer," Ryan says sharply, and this time it seems to make an impact. Spencer glares at him for a long moment, clenching his jaw.

Finally he says, "I'm going to go call Pete." He turns his back to them and strides out the room.

"Why does he need to call Pete?" Jon asks.

Ryan bends down to pick Spencer's weapons from the floor. "Status update," he explains. "So Spencer and I are, uh, zombie hunters. Pete recruited us when we were seventeen. I'm sorry we never told you." He walks over to one of the interior walls, presses his palm against a smooth line curving down to the floor, and a panel pops out, revealing a hidden cache with holy shit, at least twenty different weapons. "This is, uh," Ryan gestures lamely. "Part of our arsenal." Ryan fixes Spencer's two guns into their place, and goes back for the launcher.

"There's more?" Brendon asks, finally able to speak.

"Spencer's probably up on the bridge manning the stations now, in case we're followed."

"Zombies can fly?"

Ryan cracks a smile. "When they have spaceships."

"Shit," Jon says. Summing up, really, Brendon's entire day.

"It's okay," Ryan says, locking the last of the weapons away. "The _Disco_ 's equipped with some pretty good cannons, and Spencer. He's good."

"Our tourship is equipped with cannons," Brendon repeats. "Okay. So, uh. I think I'm going to."

He doesn't know what. He closes his eyes, trying to adjust his mind to the new world around him. Zombies exist. Half of his band are zombie hunters. His ship is equipped with zombie-killing cannons. Every single fan he played to tonight is apparently dead.

This is not the way he expected this tour to go.

*

He ends up taking a long shower—longer than they can afford on the ship, really, but he's not feeling very generous right now—and curling up in his bunk with a datapad, reading everything he can find about zombies. He v-links with his mother, who reassures him his family's fine; he searches the news meticulously for any reports about zombie outbreaks, but there are none, just a single mention of _Panic! at the Disco_ 's concert in Pollux tonight, reviews pending.

Ryan and Jon both stop by and invite him to the common area, and when he can't stand being alone anymore, he joins them.

"Hey," Jon says. He slides over to the side to give Brendon more room on the couch but Brendon sits close to him anyway, pressing against his side. Brendon lifts his feet to the cushions and folds his arms around his knees, and Jon puts down the guitar he was fiddling with, wraps an arm around Brendon's back instead. "How you doing?"

Brendon leans into Jon's shoulder. "Pretty fucked up, actually, I think. If you could lend me whatever it is you're taking to keep so cool about this, that'd be great."

Jon chuckles. "No recreationals today, just denial."

"Right." Brendon sighs. "I could do with some of that too."

"You'll get used to it," Ryan offers from the floor, where he's sprawled kind of awkwardly with a guitar in his lap, his datapad propped at his side. Brendon hasn't seen him bring out the acoustic in a long time.

"How long did it take you?" Brendon asks.

"It was different for us," Ryan says.

"You mean you didn't discover the existence of zombies when the girl you were about to kiss started growling and scratching and trying to eat your brains out?"

"Right, exactly," Ryan says, still strumming the strings.

"And then her arms fell off, let's not forget that part."

"That happens sometimes. That's why we try to only engage from a distance. Parts fall off, tissue starts to splatter. It's not pretty."

"You guys are gross," Jon informs them.

"Your mom is gross," Ryan says.

"Zombies are fucking gross, guys," Brendon says with a shudder, fighting back nausea again. He breathes in Jon's scent, which is sweet and comfortable and nothing like rotting flesh. "Can we—can we watch something? I could use a distraction."

"Well, we have a few zombie movies, which actually makes a lot more sense now—" Jon starts, and Brendon hits him. Jon laughs. "Or animated classics. That could work."

They put the movie on, and Brendon resolutely does not ask where Spencer is. Fuck him. Brendon doesn't care.

*

Brendon wakes up gradually, slowly floating into consciousness and becoming aware of his surroundings. It's dark and warm and his head is resting on someone's lap; Jon. Brendon remembers what happened, must have fallen asleep during the movie, but he knows the feel of the common area couch below him, recognizes Jon's warm hand rubbing circles on his back. His muscles ache—he thinks he might have pulled a hamstring, running—but for now he's safe and warm and just wants to stay where he is forever.

"So that's how it works?" Jon is saying in a hushed voice.

"That's the gist," Ryan answers softly. "We used to think it was contagious, but it doesn't quite work like that. It can lie dormant for months before breaking out, and usually one case will trigger the others, and then you get… mass outbreaks like these, which. There's no way to come back from that, we have to kill them."

"That's fucked up," Jon says.

"Most of the time we save people," Ryan says. Brendon imagines him shrugging. "It's not too bad."

"And the band," Jon says. Brendon can feel him tense up a little. "Is that just... a cover?"

"No, man," Ryan says, quiet but adamant. " _No_. The band is... in the end, Spence and I are more like a reserve force. Pete tells us when he needs us to do something, and we keep our eyes open, but mostly this is a war that's being led by other people. We're like the fifth circle of back-up, for extra support. Being on tour just means we get to travel around easily, but no, the band is _it_ , all the way."

"Good," Jon says. He runs his hand through Brendon's hair, and Brendon would purr but right now it's too much effort.

There's a soft shuffle by the hall that leads to the bridge, and Brendon recognizes Spencer's footsteps. Spencer hovers there for a few moments, and finally steps in, treading quietly and stopping, Brendon surmises, by the edge of the couch he and Jon are occupying.

"Hey," he says quietly. He sounds tired.

"How you doing?" Ryan asks, which wow, Spencer's current well-being is so not something that Brendon is worried about, but then Ryan adds, "Are you done being an asshole yet?" and Brendon kind of wants to hug him.

"Pete says he's sending a few teams over," Spencer says. "We don't have to stick around this system. We can even make the next show if we want to, if we don't want to cancel. And yeah," he sighs. "I'm done being an asshole."

"You were really harsh with him, dude," Jon says.

"I know," Spencer says, and Brendon hears another shuffling noise. "Look, I just. I freaked out. It's dangerous out there."

"Is that why you're always so pissy about him going out after shows?" Jon asks. Brendon's heart speeds up.

"What?"

"You know, because people could turn out to be... zombies."

"Oh. Yeah," Spencer says, sounding strained. "I just worry. If Ryan or I aren't around to neutralize them." Something sinks in Brendon's gut, but he keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even. He doesn't even know why he cares.

Ryan starts snickering. "Ryan Ross, shut the fuck up," Spencer says crossly, which only makes Ryan snicker harder.

Brendon's feet dip as Spencer sits down at the end of the couch, and Brendon almost jumps when he feels a hand on his leg. He stays perfectly still, though; somehow, the moment seems tenuous and he doesn't want to break it. Spencer's hand feels hot as he absently taps a beat on Brendon's calf, traces his thumb along the curve of Brendon's ankle and starts rubbing gently, and fuck, Brendon can feel his heart rate speed up again, this isn't fair, and Spencer is an utter douche for fondling Brendon in his sleep before he's even _apologized_ but it feels so good.

The guys keep talking in hushed voices, Jon playing with his hair and Spencer lightly massaging his feet, and it's so relaxing that Brendon's halfway to drifting off to sleep again. Ryan's picking a melody that sounds almost like a lullaby; he must have plugged his guitar into the attenuator, because the music is so soft it's barely audible. Spencer's telling Jon about Zombie Risk Warnings, universally agreed-upon signals for all hunters that gauge current zombie risk areas and set alertness levels, transmitted in the form of My Chemical Romance singles, and Brendon totally agrees with Jon that that is really fucking awesome.

"That explains so much about The Black Parade," Jon muses, and Spencer chuckles.

"Yeah, that was a rough year. Red alerts all over the place."

"I'm surprised you let me and Bren go anywhere alone."

"I, well, we," Spencer falters. "It wasn't _that_ dangerous at the time. No, it was, but we've changed our security protocols since. Um."

"Jon," Ryan says, "stop torturing him, it's mean."

"What?" Spencer says defensively.

"Spencer, dude," Jon laughs. "I don't think it's the security protocols that changed, but your epic crush on Brendon."

Spencer's whole body twitches, and Brendon's eyes jerk open. " _What?_ " Brendon says.

Jon looks down at him. "I knew you were awake, fucker."

"Can we go back to the part about Spencer's crush on me?" It is seriously unfair to spring this many surprises on him in one day.

"Alleged crush," Spencer says nervously.

Ryan snorts, and Jon starts laughing again. "How about," he says, gently extricating himself from Brendon, and tucking a pillow in his place, "you guys take some time to talk things out?"

"We don't—" Spencer starts.

"Yes," Brendon says.

Jon grins, and Ryan's picking himself up off the floor too. "We'll see you guys later," Jon says. Ryan follows him, pausing to whisper something to Spencer and give him a light pat on the back on his way out.

Brendon sits up. Spencer stares intently at Brendon's feet. "So," Brendon says expectantly.

Something about the line of Spencer's shoulders stiffens, like he's bracing himself. He takes a breath, and lifts his head to look at Brendon. "I'm sorry."

Brendon meets his eyes. "I'm gonna need, like. A list," he says carefully.

"Right, yeah." Spencer says. "You should know, I don't know how long you've been awake for, but—I came in here to apologize anyway, this isn't just because—" Spencer shakes his head. "Anyway, I'm sorry for not telling you about the zombie thing. It's not that I don't trust you, it's just—safer. And we didn't want to burden you guys, and it was probably inertia too, I don't know. We probably should have told you sooner, before it ever got to—" Spencer swallows. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Brendon nods. "Okay."

"Okay? That's it?"

"Yeah, Spence. I'm going to think about it some, but. I do appreciate the apology."

"Okay."

"Look, to be honest," Brendon adds, "I don't think that the whole zombie thing has really sunk in for me yet, so. I might wake up really pissed about it in a week, I don't know. For now, the fact that you saved my life is a pretty strong point in your favor."

"Okay, good," Spencer says, looking genuinely relieved, and then runs his hand through his hair, the way he does when he's trying to focus. "So, um. I'm also sorry for losing my shit at you earlier. You didn't deserve that."

"You were an asshole," Brendon says.

"You really scared me."

"A _huge_ asshole," he stresses.

Spencer sighs. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Well, as long as you still feel a little shitty about it," Brendon says pointedly.

Spencer cracks a small smile. "I do," he promises.

"Awesome," Brendon says, feeling lighter. "Because it's really hard to stay mad at you when you're all cradling my toes in your lap."

Spencer laughs. He presses his thumb into the curve of Brendon's instep, and this time Brendon lets himself shiver. "Like that?"

"Mmm," Brendon replies, closing his eyes for a moment. "Except next time you could wait till I'm actually awake to grope me."

"Fuck you, I wasn't groping you."

"But you wanted to?" Brendon asks, and holds his breath.

For the longest moment, Spencer freezes. Brendon can hear his breaths, in and out, in an out. When the silence stretches on for too long, he says softly, "I'm not that scary, dude."

Spencer's laugh sounds forced. "You kind of are."

"Well you fight zombies in your spare time, so I don't know what that says about me." Brendon pulls his feet back from Spencer, tucks his knees under his chin.

"Okay, no, come here." Spencer takes Brendon's hand in his and pulls him a little closer; his hand is warm and dry and feels really good in Brendon's. Spencer has awesome hands, Brendon's always thought so, whether he's holding a drumstick or a gun, and wow, that's a new thought that's both troubling and hot. Spencer's stare is fixed on Brendon's hand, caught in a firm grasp, and he finally says, "I like you, okay? I like you a lot."

Brendon wiggles his fingers. "My left hand likes you a lot too."

"You fucking dick," Spencer says, pushing him, but he's smiling, and Brendon's kind of grinning like an idiot himself.

"You like me," Brendon sing-songs, something warm and happy spreading in his chest. "Enough to deliberately cockblock me since the beginning of tour, I wonder?"

"Shut _up_ ," Spencer groans.

"I _knew_ it!"

"Seriously, shut up," Spencer repeats, flushing. It's maybe the cutest flush Brendon has ever seen, and Brendon wonders whether being the object of Spencer Smith's affections makes you, like, instantly high, because that's what it feels like.

"Make me," Brendon says, his voice unexpectedly scratchy, and Spencer tugs Brendon down and leans in to kiss him. It's not a long kiss, but Spencer's palm cradles Brendon's jaw, fingers splayed on his cheek and his neck, and Spencer's beard is soft and his mouth his hot and Brendon can feel long eyelashes against his cheek, and Brendon breathes in deep and smells _Spencer_. By the time they pull apart, Brendon's toes are tingling. "Man, I really missed making out," he sighs happily.

"I'm going to pretend you don't mean with any random mouth that comes along your path."

"No," Brendon says. He thinks about snuggling next to Spencer, and decides straddling would be more fun instead. "Just hot zombie-hunting drummers."

"Oh," Spencer says, settling his hands on Brendon's hips. "I guess I should warn off Bob Bryar and Andy Hurley, then."

"Or," Brendon says reasonably, "you could keep a man satisfied so he doesn't have to seek out other pastures."

Spencer presses his lips to Brendon's neck, grazing the skin lightly with his teeth, making him shudder. "That could work too."

"And also," Brendon adds, though conversation is getting harder and harder to concentrate on under Spencer's attention, "Also, you're going to teach me how to be a zombie-hunter, and that all the badassery will lose its mystique."

"Okay," Spencer says, "but I kind of want to issue the zombies of the universe a warning now."

"'Start panicking'," Brendon suggests.

Spencer makes a face. "We burned through that joke five years ago, dude."

"Then teaching me is probably going to be very tedious, sucks for you," Brendon says, and dips his head for some more making out because it has been at least a full minute. Spencer greets him eagerly, and smiles, and murmurs, "I can live with that."


End file.
